


I Spy

by Corinth (syren_song)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Motorcycle Gang AU, Slow Build, gentrification
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 11:27:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3207509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syren_song/pseuds/Corinth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty years ago, the people of Erebor were driven from their homes by the shady land developer and politician Smaug. Now, to take back their home and reclaim what's been taken, they need to prove Smaug's crimes and clear their own names. And for that, they're going to need a hacker.</p><p>After leaving their homes, the people of Erebor had to find their own ways to survive. For Thorin's Company, this meant forming their own gang of rough and ready bikers. Now the time has come for them to reclaim their legacy, with the assistance of their wealthy suburban hacker. Oh, and they have to avoid the attentions of rival gangs and police alike.</p><p>They have it in the bag.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Spy

**Author's Note:**

> One day I thought to myself, "What if Thorin's Company was a motorcycle gang?" and this happened. Buckle up, kids. It's going to be a long ride.
> 
> (Also, I've found that it helps if you read the set up for the Shire with a Southern accent. Try it.)

The Shire was the prettiest little suburb in all of metropolitan Atlanta. The houses sat in a patient line, all decently sized, cookie cutter homes in a cheery ecru. The streets were as smooth and even as a river running, and every lawn was cut neatly to standard. In a quaint little society such as this, no organization could possibly have more power than the local Neighborhood Association. Every resident knew the regulations by heart—every resident, of course, except for those pesky Tooks. Oh, they could raise a right ruckus now and then, but eventually they would acquiesce, no matter how tongue in cheek the compliance. The houses themselves had been changed now and then throughout the years, but every change was precisely the same for each house at precisely the same time, so that even change would be homogeneous.

 

The people were another thing. Of course, no one could help genetics. No matter how hard they tried, everyone came out a little bit different. Take Largo Baggins’ wide ears, for example, or Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’ large nose. Not that she had that nose anymore, mind you, but that’s neither here nor there. The people of the Shire attended all of the same events, were members of the same country clubs, and sent their kids to the same schools and soccer lessons. Quite a self-contained community, really, and they preferred it that way. Why, if anyone came in from the outside, they might grow their grass a quarter inch too long or plant the wrong kinds of flowers. That just wouldn’t do.

 

Marriages, when they occurred, were predictable. The women were expected to get four years of college at most, or better yet, to marry right out of high school. Men, on the other hand, were expected to attend graduate school, so that they might better provide for their families. Most residents married their high school sweethearts, but after a strenuous screening process, a man might be allowed to marry a lovely debutante he met at college. Then, they would have a lovely 2.5 children who would all learn to play instruments like the flute, piano, or cello, and perfect a sport chosen for them by their families. Swimming, strangely enough, was wildly unpopular, and the school was eventually forced to cancel the swim team. At the same time, it remained the neighborhood regulation for each house to have its own oblong swimming pool, no larger than twenty feet wide.

 

The only topic on which there was public disagreement was on Mr. Bilbo Baggins, commonly respected but not commonly liked. The Took side of his family thought he was too much of a Baggins, given to the monotonous pomp pushed by the Association; The Bagginses thought he was too much of a Took, inclined towards unruly mischief and shenanigans. If there was one thing they could all agree upon, it was how much of a shame it was that poor old Bilbo (bless his heart) had never settled down to have children, especially with his house being one of the oldest and most stately homes in all of the Shire. When Sherman had come marching through, it was said, his house was the only one they hadn’t burned. Disregard the fact that every house had had so many renovations that nothing remained of the original, save for reputation. In any case, Bilbo had followed the typical path during his early life. He’d gone to a nice college, gotten a pretty yet useless degree in old literature, along with a more practical but boring degree in computer science. But he hadn’t dated anyone in high school, hadn’t dated in university, and hadn’t married any of the local debutantes. The other thing that had struck people was Bilbo’s face. There was nothing wrong about it, not exactly, but his expression was always a bit off, like the expression he was showing was never the one he intended. Like he was always a bit too self-contained. Perhaps in reaction to the vicious public opinion, or perhaps in an attempt to emulate his late father Bungo, he was stubbornly polite to all, tidily dressed, and kept his house and garden perfectly up to code.

 

On this night it was an ordinary Wednesday, and Bilbo had been working in just such a garden until it became too dark for comfort. Now he had settled in with a lovely fire, and a lovely book, and--above all else—some lovely alone time. About an hour into this luxury, Bilbo snuggled further into his armchair, idly wondering how much he would regret it if he slept in that chair for the night.

 

Then there came a knock at the door.

 

Bilbo shook the sleep from his limbs as he went to answer it, tilting his head until he felt his neck crack and carding through his hair. The Neighborhood Association was known for spontaneous, nosy visitations to make sure he was in seamless accordance with whatever mundane rule. Maybe they wanted to make sure he only sneezed in the upstairs bathroom, on every third Wednesday, around 7 P.M. while listening to Sinatra. He walked very slowly, sorry to disrupt the peace he had been basking in. When he had finally pulled open his front door, Bilbo was surprised. Instead of the short, stout, dark figure of his cousin Lobelia, he was greeted by his tall, grey godfather, leaning on his old cane with an apologetic smile.

 

Bilbo shut the door.

 

Gandalf knocked again, impatiently, and pushed the door open with his long cane. “How is that any way to greet an old friend?” he huffed. His voice, even at conversational volume, had a way of carrying. It was like even his words refused to be ignored, prying into unwilling ears if not unwilling minds.

 

“It’s not you, Gandalf, it’s what always seems to follow you,” Bilbo intoned, voice annoyed. He fidgeted. “But as long as you’re here, have a seat and I’ll make you some tea. Never let it be said that Bilbo Baggins is a bad host.” He turned, heading for the kitchen.

 

“I wouldn’t dare,” Gandalf replied dryly. “Before you put yourself to any trouble, you should know. I invited over some guests, and I suspect they’ll be hungry as well.”

 

Bilbo pursed his lips, but before he could comment on improper manners and inviting people into others’ houses without warning, the door burst open. Maybe “burst” is an exaggeration, but the door came open, and in stepped the first visitor.

 

“Ah, Balin!” Gandalf called. “May I present to you Bilbo Baggins, the one I spoke to you about.” The home owner in question stood frozen, caught between his desire to be a good host and the desire to get this stranger the Hell out of his house. This Balin was a man only a little taller than Bilbo himself, with white hair and a well groomed beard. His eyes crinkled in a friendly, grandfatherly way, which was totally at odds with his torn jeans and black leather jacket. Out in his yard— _My petunias_ , Bilbo’s mind protested—a motorcycle was visible.

 

Bilbo snapped back into reality to shake hands with his new acquaintance, but only in time for the man to start making his way towards the kitchen. Before Bilbo could stop him, the door came open again. In fact, the door kept coming open and closed until he realized that by “some guests”, Gandalf had meant no less than a dozen rough-looking bikers. There had been Balin, of course, and energetic Fili and Kili, whose energy and youth made them difficult to tell apart at first glance. There were also Oin and his brother Gloin, Bifur with his cousins Bofur and Bombur, and the three brothers Nori, Ori, and Dori. Honestly, so many names given at once were almost impossible to remember, and Bilbo couldn’t yet put all of the names to all of the faces. The most intimidating of them was a man by the name of Dwalin, Balin’s brother, who must have been at least 6’8” with more tattoos than skin. Yet, they were all equally as willing to raid Bilbo’s recently stocked pantry, and less recently filled wine cellar. The smallest mercy he received was that the young ones, Fili and Kili, as well as the rotund Bombur relegated themselves to emptying his cabinets, so it was at least an organized raid rather than an ambush. His poor grandmother would have fainted from the sight.

 

However, somewhat organized chaos is still a form of anarchy, and Bilbo was certain that one of his neighbors would file a noise level complaint.

 

“Hey, where’s Thorin?” one of the twins—were they twins? No, they couldn’t be, the blond one was older—chimed.

 

“Probably got himself lost,” murmured the first intruder, that Balin. Evidently, Bilbo’s godfather had not invited a dozen people, but a baker’s dozen. That was just rosy. A baker’s dozen of shady motorcyclists who couldn’t park properly or remember not to track mud into other people’s houses.

 

“No, not my grandmother’s china!” Bilbo cried, rushing after the big one, Bombur, who seemed to be juggling three salad plates and eating half of yesterday’s cream cake at the same time. Crumbs, he could worry about later. Priceless, fragile family heirlooms being used for parlor tricks? That was an issue for the present.

 

Well, until there came a final knock on the door. Time did not stop, but it seemed to slow down; Bilbo’s rowdy, boisterous guests all quieted, pausing at the same time. It was as if some unknown button had been pressed, or switch flipped. Bilbo could have fallen over in shock, but instead he was pulled, almost magnetically, to welcome the thirteenth deviant.

 

“You’re late, Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf chastised. The new addition didn’t look apologetic so much as nettled, as if it were Gandalf’s fault he was late, and should know better than to say anything to him.

 

“This place was hard to find—all of the houses look the bloody same. If not for the sign you put on the door, I couldn’t’ve found it at all.” he deigned to reply. If Bilbo had been frozen when the first guest came in, he was then an ice block. This Thorin was dressed similarly to the others—jeans, black shirt, black leather vest—but there was something in his air and the glint of his eyes; he seemed nearly _royal_. It was easy to understand why they had all stopped when he arrived. He seemed the kind of man to command attention, to bend it to his will, and there were some obviously longstanding loyalties at play. That having been said, Bilbo quickly came to when Thorin’s words caught up to him.

 

“Wait, there’s a sign on my door? Gandalf, _what did you do to my door_?!” Bilbo cried. Lo and behold, there was a wide sheet of paper with a large capital G sprawled on it tacked below his knocker. _Well, that’s just juvenile_ , Bilbo thought, wading the paper up.

 

Gandalf cleared his throat. “Thorin Oakenshield, may I present to you Bilbo Baggins. Our hacker.” The man’s heavy gaze finally fell onto him, appraising him. Bilbo suddenly wished he were wearing anything, anything other than a sweater vest and khakis. As appropriate as they were for the Shire, he felt completely out of dress code.

 

“He looks more like an English professor than a hacker,” he tossed dismissively, turning to join the rabble rather than doing something polite. Say, shaking Bilbo’s hand, for instance. Taking off his boots. Making small talk about Bilbo’s now-ruined garden, or the antique mirror he’d hung in the entryway that had cost him upwards of a hundred dollars. Anything. And, if that weren’t bad enough, the man’s comment was enough to turn his gang from simply ignoring Bilbo to outright shunning him. In his own home. Any resistance was met with mockery—Bilbo tried to make a reasonable lecture about not playing with breakable glassware and fine silver utensils, and they’d basically sung a song about how picky he was. They played with their—his—food, competing to see who could shovel it faster, and even going so far as to throw food into each other’s mouths from across the room. If Bilbo had ever gone to a frat party, he was sure it would be much of the same, except that they wouldn’t be guzzling 20 year old chardonnay.

 

The only noticeable exceptions were Gandalf and Thorin. Gandalf sat in Bilbo’s armchair, blowing smoke circles between puffs from his cigarette. From this position in one corner, he seemed to be observing the group rather than engaging with them. As the smoke rose from the red end of his vice, it remained in place, shrouding him. Always so dramatic, that one. As for Thorin, he maintained his uncivilized manner along with those at Bilbo’s table, but held his insurgence to a respectable volume. The man had insulted his host and taken advantage of his home, but now he appeared to be biding his time, as if waiting for some unseen cue.

 

Suddenly, he turned to Gandalf, eyes flashing and tone self-righteous. “Why have you brought us here, to the house of a useless professor? You promised me a hacker, not some middle aged suburban rat—“

 

Gandalf’s expression clouded over as he rose in indignation, the head of his great cane crashing onto the dining table. Bilbo meeped in protestation. “You know better than to question me, Thorin Oakenshield!” his voice booming, “If I say he is a hacker, then he is a hacker! It is a great _arrogance_ to say that I am wasting your time. Was it a waste of your time to bring you somewhere safe, where you and your friends can eat to your fill? Was it a waste of your time to introduce you to the one person who can help you pull this off? Is it a waste of your time to bring you news from your late father?”

 

Thorin’s jaw clenched in unwilling submission, and he looked away.

 

“Good.” Gandalf straightened, lifting his cane from the table and tapping it gently back onto the floor.

 

“You said you had news from my father?” The man asked in an even voice. The rest of the company had not stilled, per se, but the food went forgotten as they settled around the table to hear the conversation. Their faces varied on a range of expression. Dwalin was stoic, Balin looked slightly concerned, and the young brothers Fili and Kili were almost serious, with an impression of vulnerability conveyed only by their eyes. Bilbo looked between the pair and the group’s leader, and it was abruptly apparent that they were related. Not directly, perhaps, but Thorin’s father could easily be their grandfather. Again he felt that he was intruding, but how could one make a quick exit from their own house?

 

Gandalf’s cane made low clunks against the hardwood as he walked closer to Thorin, handing him a torn sheet of paper. “Thrain gave this to me shortly before he died. It should be the location of the safety deposit box where he stored his last will and testament.”

 

Thorin took the paper gravely, unfolding it in slow, measured movements. “And wherever Thrain stored his will should be the location of Thror’s documents, as well.” There was a noticeable change in the air. Though the members of the party had been happy to see each other before, there was now a relief in nigh unnoticeable tension. A murmuring began amongst his followers, ranging from elated excitement to hardened fear.

 

Now, Bilbo could figure out who this “Thrain” was, but he had no ideas about this “Thror”, why they were talking about safety deposit boxes, or—most importantly—why any of it mattered. All at once, the events of the night, from having fourteen unexpected visitors to their ransacking of his house and pantry, the way he had been marginalized all evening, and the destruction of his prize-winning garden, came upon him. Standing jerkily and making wild gestures with his arms, Bilbo demanded, “Would someone be so kind as to tell me what the Hell is going on?!”

 

Two things became apparent at once: they’d forgotten he was even there, and the Company believed in discussing difficult subjects through the power of song. Each of the rough-and-tumble bikers startled a little before producing hitherto unseen musical instruments. Bilbo started to feel a bit faint, and took a seat of his own at the table to listen.

 

As the music washed over him, Bilbo found himself far from his fancy Atlanta home, and perched in a bar craddled in lower New York. Thorin, the gravely majestic man before him, was descended from an immigrant by the name of Durin, who had helped settle the area he named Erebor. From there, everyone of Durin’s line remained a member of wealth and prestige in Erebor, groomed to be leaders of the community. A few generations down the line, one of them had even opened a pub they called The Lonely Mountain. They were successful; they continued to expand; Thorin’s grandfather Thror had even talked of buying more land and increasing their already considerable profits. Until, they sang, until there emerged **Smaug**. Smaug, a land developer and up-and-coming politician, coveted the power of Durin’s line and resented the competition they presented. After several failed attempts to buy them out, Smaug’s tactics became more sinister, and much, much harder to prove. The Durins alleged that Smaug had used ties to organized crime to set up an onslaught. One day, a gang that had been hedging around their land set The Lonely Mountain on fire before opening fire on everyone inside. There were survivors, yes, but not as many who had bled out or burned alive in the flames. To make matters worse, Smaug had forged a contract between himself and Thror that would give him sole ownership over The Lonely Mountain, and pushed the blame for its damages onto Thrain and his family, claiming that Thrain had been hungry for the inheritance he would earn from Thror’s death. Afraid of imprisonment, but more apprehensive about Smaug’s criminal connections, the people of Erebor had fled.

 

As best as they could tell, the Durin estate was still intact, but would remain out of reach until they could prove their claims against Smaug and take back what they were owed. Initially, the objective had been for Thrain to clear his own name; however, his suspicious disappearance and subsequent death left the honor to Thorin. This was not entirely a bad thing. New leadership led to fresh interest, and a renewed thirst for vengeance on their fallen comrades. In addition, technological advancement made it more likely now for them to find any proof of Smaug’s misdeeds. There was but a fly in the ointment: to find said proof, they would have to be discreet in their snooping. Which, then, leads them into needing a hacker. Speaking of which…

 

“Here is your contract,” Thorin said gruffly, looking at Bilbo for only the second time, and handing him a rather alarmingly thick stack of papers. In mild hysteria it seemed to weigh several pounds, and to be bound by a stapler thicker than was probably healthy. Bilbo took the document despairingly, flipping through and trying to absorb as much as possible.

 

“Woah, woah, wait, there’s a death clause?” he squeaked. Nondisclosure he could understand, as well as the need for him to fund his own arrangements, of course, and not suing in case of injury was a bit of a stretch, but honestly. There’s a limit to these things.

 

“Of course,” the man replied, his naturally unhappy face turning into a deeper frown. “Smaug had no qualms about ordering the deaths of multiple members of my family, did you think he would spare the life of one English professor?”

 

“You’re missing the point!” Bilbo exclaimed, nervous laughter bubbling in his throat. He stood, and the room tilted around him. Taking a calming breath through the nose, Bilbo placed his hands on the table to brace himself. “I’m going to have to sleep on this.”

 

“There’s no time. We leave in the morning.” He was taking Bilbo’s acceptance for granted. He was taking everything for granted, as if there was no possibility of him saying no, as if he hadn’t insulted Bilbo multiple times before asking him to leave everything he had, everything he knew, just to follow him.

 

Bilbo turned away from the table, away from his dining room, and away from ridiculous, impossible, potentially fatal rescue missions. As he walked out, he left a room full of rambunctious men dead quiet behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> *Whips out musical instruments* "We're not just a gang, we're a band." There are things from the book/Peter Jackson movies I'm willing to change. As it turns out, that was not one of them.
> 
> Also, /dead/ quiet, get it?


End file.
